


Weekend

by starlurker



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2010-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlurker/pseuds/starlurker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur didn't see the appeal in it before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weekend

**Author's Note:**

> Unrepentant porn. Significant chunks of this will be familiar to those who have been reading cherrybina's rimming meme.

**Not quite yet**

On a Friday night, Eames had proposed it with the best of intentions. Arthur had taken it with the worst expectations.

"Have you lived your entire life as someone who goes into people's heads and somehow not have been rimmed? With that arse?" Eames asked. He tried not to be too incredulous, but letting go of the shackles of legal life had been one of the most liberating experiences in his life, and that freedom extended to every possible area.

"Yes," Arthur said with humor as dry as the Sahara. He was fresh from a shower and clad only in a towel. Eames would have joined him had circumstances allowed it.

"Then it must be remedied."

Arthur looked hesitant, which Eames couldn't wrap his mind around.

"It's never held any appeal for me."

"That's because I haven't done it yet." Eames leered, which got the predictable exhale of exasperation. Things were still so new between them, so he hasn't yet had opportunities to demonstrate his well-practiced abilities.

"If it's going to happen, because I know you'll just annoy me about it, it has to be on my terms," Arthur said.

"Of course," Eames replied and tried not to roll his eyes, rather unsuccessfully judging by Arthur's expression.

"I propose a game," Arthur said, and Eames was sure he had as gormless a look on his face as he saw on Arthur's, the free weekend stretching out before them. There had to be stakes, and Eames would have laughed at that if he hadn't been so eager to get started.

  
 **Take 1**

"I always thought you'd have tattoos," Arthur said. He was lying on his stomach on their bed, the lines of his shoulders and back tapering down to that ass that Eames has spent countless hours fantasizing about, so much so that it was almost its own separate entity. Arthur, with all his maddening, endearing quirks and tics, and Arthur's arse, as mouth-watering as any fresh tropical fruit.

"Why's that, hmm?" Eames was crouched over Arthur on his hands and knees -- he liked surrounding Arthur like this. He lowered himself gently until his cock rested on the small of Arthur's back. Arthur sighed audibly, his body relaxing further, and Eames used that to bite Arthur's nape before sliding his tongue in a long, smooth, uninterrupted from Arthur's neck to the space between his legs.

"Just seemed like the type for some reason," Arthur said. "I saw you forge someone like you once, but with tattoos."

"Would that be a turn-on?" Eames gently forced Arthur's legs to open further. He licked his index finger and brushed Arthur's hole, feeling the muscle clench and relax. "I've never seen the appeal of them myself frankly," Eames said. "Just one more thing to conceal in a dream, just one more thing to hide in real life. Not conducive to a life of crime, pet." He kneeled on the bed and raised Arthur's hips, heard Arthur's gasp of surprise. He licked into the groove of Arthur's arse, another long, slick lick, followed by slow, arching laps switched with quick darts of his tongue. Arthur groaned into the mattress.

"I thought you'd hold out longer," Eames said. "Come now, and I don't mean in my usual way in this bed. I thought you'd be able to hold conversation for far longer than that."

"Shut up," Arthur said. "I haven't given up. I was just surprised." Eames heard him gulp audibly. "Anyway," Arthur continued, "I just thought you'd have tattoos."

"Disappointed with unadorned skin?" Eames dove straight in, settling in for a siege against Arthur's defenses. Arthur opened up and Eames kissed his hole first before fluttering his tongue on Arthur, who made the most ego boosting sound. He let go of Arthur's hip with his right hand -- lifting weights really paid off, Eames thought -- and used his right index finger to alternate with his tongue.

"No," Arthur said, his voice strained with effort. "You're good. But, you know, if ever you felt like getting one, I'm saying--" Eames could hear him panting. "I'm saying I wouldn't mind."

Eames stopped his fingering to grasp Arthur's hip again and thrust his tongue into Arthur, fucking him in short, small bursts.

"Eames," Arthur said, "oh God, Eames. Um, a scorpion maybe?"

Eames paused at that. "Scorpion?"

"Why did you stop?" Arthur asked plaintively. "I don't know, I don't care, it was just the first thing that popped into my head."

"I'm disappointed by the quality of this conversation." He tsked for effect.

Arthur wriggled out of his grasp and turned around to lie on his back. "You win," he said, his eyes wrecked, narrow chest heaving with effort and glistening with sweat. "Fuck me now, please."

Eames felt his mouth stretch into a wide grin -- he probably looked a sociopath, but he didn't care. "You come up with truly delightful games, pet," he said, and obliged Arthur, who always made sure they both won somehow.

 **Take 4**

Eames specialized in brute strength when he fought. He knew two different martial arts, but in a fight, he knew that the raw power he could put behind his fists and his feet, in his tackles and slams was what got him through another day. Not that it was doing him any good at the moment, with Arthur, slippery as an eel and with strength that was easy to underestimate, evaded his grasp once again.

"That's pretty sad, Eames," Arthur said as he ran to the kitchen, that arse as delectable as always. "I've seen better moves in kindergarten."

Ah, the joys of naked play, Eames thought. Like out of some blue movie he saw when he was much younger of various randy Englishmen chasing naked women along the countryside. But with Arthur, the indispensable addition of Arthur.

"Your jingoistic slang gives me delightful shivers down my spine," Eames replied. Arthur was on one side of their kitchen island, Eames on the other. Arthur had definitely already planned seven alternate routes of escape, or he could prolong this by going round and round in circles because he was enough of a sadistic bastard to do that. But Eames didn't get to where he was in this life by playing predictably.

Their kitchen island still had the remnants of their pizza lunch made from scratch, ingredients that hadn't been put away yet due to their pursuit of other activities. Eames made sure to smirk at Arthur as he grabbed the extra virgin olive oil. He opened the cap and tossed its contents out on the floor around the island, even splashed Arthur's side.

"Are you insane? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get grease out of the floor?" Arthur stared at him in disbelief. Eames kept the smile on his face as he grabbed some leftover flour and tossed it in Arthur's face.

"You motherfucker," Arthur yelled. Eames bounded over the island, spilling any number of ingredients on the floor, but he didn't care. He took Arthur by the waist, lifted him and dropped him on the island, gentling it as much as he could. They were both aware that this game had crossed a line a few minutes back -- their punches lost restraint, their grips only tightened. They'd both have bruises they'd kiss away in the next few minutes.

Eames pulled Arthur close to the edge of the counter, Arthur squirming and twisting to get away. "No," Eames said, and lifted Arthur high enough by the waist so that his legs would naturally go up over his shoulders as if performing a tuck-and-roll. He didn't have much time. The minute Arthur's arse came into view, Eames didn't waste precious moments thinking of attack: he just did. Licking, laving, lapping, fluttering, flicking strokes and curls and loops of tongue, Eames' mouth watering and thirsting at the same time somehow to lick the hole and the ring and the groove. Arthur grunted, gasped, begged. A litany of curses spilled from his tongue, cursing Eames' lineage and his dirty tactics, and it was all cacophony in Eames' head, knowing that he could do this and Arthur would let him suddenly too much and he came in slippery, sticky strands, abruptly releasing Arthur whose face looked shocked into stillness, that Eames had come without anything else apart from what they had just done.

He felt his knees weaken so he braced himself on the counter. Arthur got up and wrapped his legs and arms around him, Eames panting on his neck. He felt Arthur's erection on his stomach, a hot, rigid brand.

"That was...intense," Arthur murmured.

"We're not done yet," Eames said, and tried to deliver it with as much innuendo as he could with his voice wiped out.

"I'm in no rush," Arthur said, and his smile, oh his smile, Eames thought. He'd let the world burn to see it.

 **Take 7**

Eames wasn't keeping track of his sexual victories, but Arthur was and was apparently quite cross about it.

"I'm fucking pissed," Arthur said. "I hate losing. I haven't lost this much in my life."

"You yourself said everybody wins," Eames said, puzzled. He let his hand drift on Arthur's chest, stopping here and there to leave soft, sucking kisses on the upper line of his abdominal muscles and his nipples.

It was that kind of day. Slow and languorous, like weather and time had conspired to make everything flow like thick honey from a jar. Their bed was the best place for days like this.

"A new challenge," Arthur said, determined.

"You have a surprising amount of faith in my refractory period, love."

"I don't need your dick for this challenge."

Eames tilted his head. "Curiouser and curiouser."

"On your stomach, Eames. Now."

"Far be it for me to dissaude you," Eames said and flipped over, resting his head on his forearms. "And what are the rules?"

"If you ask me to stop, I win," Arthur said. Eames saw him grab his watch from the nightstand and turn on the timer function.

 _One minute_

He'd just fucked Arthur so his muscles were loose, and Arthur's tongue on his arse was like the cooldown period after exercise, a relaxing routine after hard work.

 _Five minutes_

Eames felt the muscles on his back getting tense. He raised his head from where he had rested it on his forearms and arched his back.

 _Eight minutes_

His toes were curling. Arthur was relentless in his rimming -- Eames had never been subject to anything like it, something so sustained and indefatigable.

 _Twelve minutes_

The sheets below him were getting wet as he kept grinding on them. He felt Arthur pin his hips down, a gruff stop order delivered, only for Arthur to continue.

"I won't say stop," Eames said. His voice broke.

 _Fifteen minutes_

There was a rip on the sheets. The pillows were unrecognizable. The sheets were wet, and so was the spot beneath his mouth. Arthur was still going and Eames felt like his skin was too tight, stretched far too thinly.

 _Eighteen minutes_

"Dear God, Arthur, surely you have to stop for breath for longer than a few seconds."

 _Twenty minutes_

"Arthur, bloody hell, Arthur, you've proven your point."

 _Twenty-three minutes_

Arthur paused and Eames would have cried with relief, but Arthur only stopped to lick a little pool of sweat that he said had collected on the small of Eames' back. Eames had arched his back like he'd been doing yoga for a lifetime in that brief break, which was all it was, because it seemed like Arthur had gotten a second wind.

 _Thirty minutes_

"For the love of God, Arthur, stop!" Eames said, panting. He was whimpering in the last few minutes, strung out to the point that it was almost torture.

"Not quite yet," Arthur said. Eames heard the rip of a condom wrapper, the snap on the bottle of lube. He prepared for a different kind of marathon.

 _Sixty minutes_

He opened a bleary eye to look at Arthur who had collapsed on his back beside him after a truly spectacular fucking session. "You'll pay for that," and tried to ignore his horrible, blissed out voice.

"I look forward to it, Mister Eames."

  
 **Maybe now**

"Should I ask how you got so good for someone who purportedly has had very little practice?"

"If I can ask how you got so good in the first place."

Eames stared at the ceiling. He heard Arthur's breaths slowing down, felt their fingers brush up against each other.

"I'm not going to like your answer, Eames." All said so matter-of-factly that Eames had to wonder, but then, he knew he wouldn't like Arthur's answer either.

"Let sleeping dogs lie and all that, I assume?"

"Served us well up to this point."

Eames turned to Arthur, who was still looking up. "Not a game anymore, is it, darling?"

Arthur met his gaze finally. "No."

He wrapped himself around Arthur, tension easing in both their shoulders, in the room itself. Eames felt that familiar urge to run, run so fast Arthur couldn't follow, run so swiftly that he might just literally leave this all behind him. Rules from an old game, he thought idly, maybe rules from an old life. He let the urge go with his next breath and settled in instead. Monday was minutes away.

THE END


End file.
